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The book of love is long and boring
Sam had been wandering for a long while, wishing the alcohol Sunjata had given him (gifted to him out of pity) had any kind of effect on his mind. Being so depressingly sharp in his thinking had lead him down a long, dark road as he walked to nowhere in particular; The road inevitably ended in him hating himself and everything he'd ever done.
He couldn't seem to keep or maintain, or even begin, a relationship, no matter how he tried.
He was too scared of one half of a prior failed relationship to do the work for his Goddess.
He had two sisters, both of which he could describe his relationship with as an uncomfortable shrug.
He seemed to swing wildly from confidence to crippling self-hatred with no indication of what was to come.
He was 27 years old and still burst into tears at the slightest of overwhelming emotion.
These thoughts haunting his mind endlessly, his walk had been punctuated by a lot of sighs, staring up at the sky (purple, orange, then to dark blue - black, back to the orange of the morning, not so much sun he had to worry yet) and crushing various things he picked up in his hand. Little clay rocks, blades of grass, anything he could idly pick at.
That he ended up at the Spire wasn't all that surprising, he supposed. It was the start of all the problems, if he thought about it; it had been here he had made his first big brave move, had come to try and free The Core, had put himself in harms way. The first hint of boldness in his spirit, the first straw of the many that now threatened to break his back. Staring up at the obelisk-like black tower he felt like screaming at it, demanding it give him any kind of competence along with all that confidence.
Instead of screaming though, he only slowly laid down on the grass in it's shadow and stared up at it. In the grass, hair and clothes a mess, stains from whiskey choked down his shirt, he looked like an absolute mess. In that moment he allowed himself to feel absolutely sorry for himself (moreso than usual) and let out a small 'Fuck this.' as if it would somehow impress the world with his act of rebellion.
He couldn't seem to keep or maintain, or even begin, a relationship, no matter how he tried.
He was too scared of one half of a prior failed relationship to do the work for his Goddess.
He had two sisters, both of which he could describe his relationship with as an uncomfortable shrug.
He seemed to swing wildly from confidence to crippling self-hatred with no indication of what was to come.
He was 27 years old and still burst into tears at the slightest of overwhelming emotion.
These thoughts haunting his mind endlessly, his walk had been punctuated by a lot of sighs, staring up at the sky (purple, orange, then to dark blue - black, back to the orange of the morning, not so much sun he had to worry yet) and crushing various things he picked up in his hand. Little clay rocks, blades of grass, anything he could idly pick at.
That he ended up at the Spire wasn't all that surprising, he supposed. It was the start of all the problems, if he thought about it; it had been here he had made his first big brave move, had come to try and free The Core, had put himself in harms way. The first hint of boldness in his spirit, the first straw of the many that now threatened to break his back. Staring up at the obelisk-like black tower he felt like screaming at it, demanding it give him any kind of competence along with all that confidence.
Instead of screaming though, he only slowly laid down on the grass in it's shadow and stared up at it. In the grass, hair and clothes a mess, stains from whiskey choked down his shirt, he looked like an absolute mess. In that moment he allowed himself to feel absolutely sorry for himself (moreso than usual) and let out a small 'Fuck this.' as if it would somehow impress the world with his act of rebellion.
No one can lift the damn thing
